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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304358">A Little Death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardonicusRust/pseuds/SardonicusRust'>SardonicusRust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), Rusty Quill RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Consensual Somnophilia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Do Not Archive, Fucking Back To Life, Ghost Sex, Life Giving Cock, M/M, Sex Dreams, Smut, Spectrophilia, happy halloween ya filthy animals, le petite mort, orgone energy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:48:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardonicusRust/pseuds/SardonicusRust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex couldn't name the color of his eyes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander J. Newall/Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Little Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>look I wrote this a long while back and is it historical wilde? is it RQG wilde? i don't know. you decide.</p><p>they're gonna fuck.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex dreamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike the rest of his thinking, his dreams tended to be terribly mundane. For dreams. Which was to say, odd and freakish and disturbing and strange, but dreams generally were like that, even for the more typical-of-thought folk, he had heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, this dream was something he was certain was exceptionally un-exceptional. Common. The archetype dream, up there with naked in front of a classroom or teeth falling out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a sex dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn't quite aware it was a dream, at that moment. He was only aware of a hunger-but-not, a need, a tension, an unspecified sensitivity and pleasure. The tender core of him ached and needed, and his subconscious fed him tantalizing pressure and sensation, but it was frustrating. As dreams were wont to be, it was soft, fuzzy and indistinct, not quite what one wanted when they were hard and heated for the solid satisfying tight and slick of tangible flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>You haven't quite got me, have you?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice was familiar as his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>You're close. In every sense. Do you want me or not?</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice was his own. But it also was someone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Go ahead, then. Take me. You were mostly there, anyways</b>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came as he woke, gasping out the tail end of a name that then fled his grasp as it had flown from his lips, the memory of it gone with the dream. And now all he was left with was the evidence of his wanting body. He'd left the voice and the name in the dream, but had brought the frustration out with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dreams either faded quickly, or lingered for days, for him. This was the latter, and he found himself with the name on his tongue over and over again in the days and weeks following. On the tip of his tongue, right there, before it fell back, and he fell back to frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He buried himself in his work, which was easy as there was lots of it and he was excellent at it. He didn't eat chocolate before bed and rested well and drank water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't masturbate for a while, though. A little startled and haunted by his dream. He thought it seemed a cheap and hokey and frankly undignified way to drag the name out.  He would find it with his mind, thanks, not his cock. He was a man of intelligence, chrome and clever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet he was still a man, so he did once again fall into the dream eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this time, he was barely in the dream a moment, just experiencing the first stirring sureties of subtle subconscious stimulation, the want creeping in like moss, or the tide, or light, and-</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Ah. Here we are. Let's have another go, shall we? I want to be offended at how forgettable you've twisted me to be, but I understand I'm not... as things are, tangibles aren't my strong suit anymore, so there you go.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Perhaps I collected enough from you last time. You certainly got lots from me, it's only fair, yes?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Let's wake up and see if I can come this time. Er. So to speak.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Unless you're agreeable to that.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex woke, into the indescribably hued gaze of Oscar Wilde.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd never met Oscar Wilde, of course, but he knew him. Somehow. How did he know him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was not the right question. There were far more far more far more important ones. Like-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the fuck," Alex whispered, scrambling backwards, yanking his bedsheets up like the flimsy cloth could provide any form of protection from the person suddenly in his room. On his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Simply put: I'm a ghost, and you've called to me. Though perhaps I should say specter. 'Ghost' isn't all that sexy."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Uh," Alex said eloquently, not exactly what he'd always imagined he would say if he had ever gleaned the chance to speak to a long-passed idol or inspiration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right. I'm not exactly thinking just well here either. I'm rather," he licked his lips, gaze flicking deliberately down from Alex's eyes and back up, "hungry. And so are you. Each in our own way."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How- how- </span>
  <em>
    <span>how-</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You called to me. Or something. We might be bound. Or a part of a past life? Look, life doesn't have all the answers, and death doesn't either. One answer I do know- how we can both think a bit more clearly.” He smiled and held up his hands, palms up, both supplication and a gesture of peace. “I'm barely here. I need more energy to manifest fully. Right now I'm a bit... basal. I need more to be more. A whole person takes a lot. And you- you're clearly hungry as well, in your way. We do this, we both will be better and can talk like real people."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We- you- we what?" Alex was sure he would be furious with himself for being such a nonsensical stammering gibbon later, but at the moment, he was just a man- a man who'd been woken up by a specter of a dead person he sometimes mimicked in role playing pretend games with his friends, he was not trying to do this, he was not expecting this, he was naked and it was dark and he was having a hard time thinking at all amongst how surprised and sleepy and horny he still was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. He was still horny. The dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>dream</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I dreamed you before," he breathed, realizing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilde nodded. "The energy from that is how I'm like this. Nearly here. I just need more." He was close, but was suddenly even closer. "Will you give me that? More?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex swallowed. His cock twitched at the thought. Wilde hadn't outright said it, but his cleverness had finally started to wake up and he could piece together what he meant. Energy. Need. Hunger. Last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, satiated and still tingling- he would tingle for hours after- he would look up orgone energy and the energy released at death and </span>
  <em>
    <span>le petite mort </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the aphrodisiac effect of ectoplasm (that last one would yield hilarious but unlikely results).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But at that moment, with the freezing lifeless exhale of the ghost of Oscar Wilde teasing his sleep-swollen lips, he didn't think. He simply let himself be taken by the command and desire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a long while since he'd kissed a man, but there were few differences. A kiss was a kiss- it could be good, it could be bad. Lips. Tongue, teeth. Oscar kissed like a dream, despite the alarming certainty Alex had that he was awake this time. Oscar kissed like a dream, but not a subconscious wandering. He kissed like a daydream, like hope and desire made fleshy and soft and languidly licking into Alex's mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though Alex hadn't looked at his form properly- did he have a form? A body? A ghost whisp, a torso bleeding to cloud to air to nothing?- he could feel the weight of a body, the satisfying pressure and contact from shoulder to toes as Wilde laid down against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was taller than Alex, delightfully heavy, and covered him completely, and that knowledge made him thrust up against him and make a soft needy sound. He wanted, and Wilde had lots to give.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though Alex could feel the press of a body above him, on him, he could feel... other things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed that the specter of Oscar Wilde didn't much mind the rules of physics nor normal physicality, because Alex could both feel a slick opening dragging tantalisingly over his cock, and something blunt and firm nudging his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Wh-," Alex made a soft noise of confusion and hesitation, but his body was twice a contradiction, both disagreeing with his words and disagreeing with itself. Seeking to be both in and around, his hips pushed back against the searching pressure even as he changed motion and thrust up against the welcoming tightness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is it, pet? You take and take and play me and seek me and now that I want to give and take as you always wished, you balk? Do you want me to stop and leave you to dreamless empty sleep?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex sucked in a breath, a bit irked at Wilde's assumption of the leadership role (though it wasn't true anger, as his blood sang and heart raced and a deep private part of himself rejoiced and revered the opportunity for someone else to be the master of all, and master him as well) and thought. Did he want this?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That was his body, wanton and hard and open and begging. He never questioned that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That was his emotion, delighted and eager to experience the pleasure he'd mostly forgotten from last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That was his mind, seeking understanding and connection and to shake the fog of horny and hormones and need, as well as intrigued at the concepts and abhorring the concept of missing a rare and unlikely experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." That was Alex, and he blindly reached for Wilde, pleading to be given and taken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want this. Please."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Once more- thrice signed is the surest."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't stop."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilde laughed, and the sound was something Alex was glad he'd never attempted to capture or mimic, as he would've never done it anything but disservice. He celebrated the concept that he knew what Oscar Wilde sounded like laughing, a rare gift no one alive surely had-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he made a broken noise, somewhere between a keen and a moan, as he received yet another rare gift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew what Oscar Wilde's cock felt like in his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And an instant later, what Oscar Wilde's ass felt like on his cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn't make sense. It didn't work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn't have to. He was half dream, half phantom, fully debased and sweating and drunk on stimulation, nerves afire and mind shorting, sparks and spasms, as he was used and using, rode and fucked, within and wrapped round, giving and taking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could barely keep his eyes open, overcome as he was, but could see Wilde's head thrown back, his curls held back as he tangled one hand in his own hair and smoothed the other up Alex's chest, sternum, collarbones, throat, pressing down lighty and grinning like he'd stolen the richest most magnificent things in the world and gotten away with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fucked up into Wilde as he rode him, and humped back down against him as Wilde buried himself in Alex again and again, fucking roughly, greedily, no coy teasing or clever chasing. He gave. And he took. They both needed this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coil that had been taut and heavy in Alex's gut since sleep was fraying, sparking, as he rode/was rode to the edge. He realized he'd begun making little moans, unabashed and barely aware, in the dark, in his room, alone save for the ghosts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the ghosts- ghost- was just as captivated by the need as he was, barreling toward the brink of sensation, the bed an island where no one knew or cared of anything but nerves and fucking and gasping and pleasure, the sole rule of survival was to just get there, just a bit more, harder, faster. Greedy, giving and taking. It was everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm- I'm going to- <em>oohhh</em>," Oscar sobbed, and Alex opened his eyes for a moment to steal the image of him in all his glory, soft skin and flexing muscle, the strong column of his neck and plush lips parted and gasping, brow furrowed and hair a gentle curling tossed mane-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oscar came around Alex, and in Alex, and Alex was helpless as his own orgasm slammed into him and took him into the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opened his eyes, finally coming aware of himself again and noticing that he had closed his eyes, he saw Oscar Wilde gazing back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were the indescribable eyes. But this time, not because he was a specter. Not indescribable because he was the ghost of a person and it was the concept of a gaze, the memory of eyes, the idea of color.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilde's eyes were indescribable because that was the only way his eye color could be described, aside from other parallel descriptions that didn't mean color but meant things like earnest and brilliant and sky-like and oceanically deep and pure. Gray and blue and green and amber, or gray or blue or green or amber, all and none. They were bright, intelligent and satiated and sparkling with afterglow contentedness. Sparkling with life, or something like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex felt a rush of awe at him, and at himself even. He had done this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well. There I am. I have taken and given as I need, now. And you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm here," Alex said, his breathing sure and level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good." And then he smiled. "Oscar Wilde."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello. Hi, Oscar. Alexander J Newall." He, also, smiled. "Pleasure to meet you."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>can i get some appreciation for the fact that I managed to resist naming this "Alex Fucks The Ghost Of Oscar Wilde Back To Life"</p><p>if anyone could do it, he could. that dude's brain? powerful.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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